


Napkin Writings

by oh_kay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domesticity, F/F, F/M, Gen, Kisses, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pegging, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_kay/pseuds/oh_kay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Tumblr ficlets—most of them would fit on a napkin if I bothered to write them down by hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jennifer/Kali, T, pre-canon

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings and ratings in the chapter titles, eventual additional tags in the author’s notes before each chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They used to be happy, once upon a time.

“I don’t love you,” Kali says just before kissing her, and Julia doesn’t have time to gasp, to breathe, to ponder.

“I don’t love you,” Kali says after, when they’re lying in sweat-soaked sheets, Julia’s head on her breast. “I can’t love you.”

“It’s all right,” Julia says, lifts her head a little to put her nose closer to Kali’s clavicle, to lick her there. She’s no werewolf, but even her human senses distinguish the salty tang of perspiration and something else, something earthy and rich and _Kali_ , like a first lightning of a first storm of the summer. “All great love stories are, in fact, about death, did you know?”

(“If you weren’t, you know, a druid, what would you be?”

Julia giggles drunkenly. She’s so trashed. She’s so happy. “I dunno. Teacher, maybe? I have a knack for English, you know?”

“You have many hidden talents.”

“You betcha I do.” She smiles to herself, a little sweet thing. Gets herself out of the reverie when Kali pinches her just below the belly button. “And you? Karate kid, maybe?

Kali pushes her head into the leaves they’re lying on, stargazing. “Asshole. I would be a nurse.”)

They stay silent for a long, long time.

“I don’t want to die,” Julia says finally. “Nothingness scares me. I never got those stories about immortality being a curse. Immortality is being free of fear. I want it. I want to be free.”

“You will be,” Kali replies, and Julia hears a smile in her voice. “You will be. And I will always protect you.”

It’s not a love story, so Julia doesn’t say anything cheesy like “I know,” or “I bet you will.” But she falls asleep with her fingers tangled with Kali’s, with Kali’s heartbeat under her ear.

She dreams of lightnings striking from a clear, blue sky.


	2. Derek/Stiles, G, pre-relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek comes back to Beacon Hills changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because of [this gifset](http://hoechlinteeth.tumblr.com/post/59304093559) of Hoechlin laughing.

Stiles picks up on it immediately—the fact that Derek has changed.

From a distance, he watches Derek and Cora unpack, catalogues the differences in the set of Derek’s shoulders, jaw, eyebrows. There aren’t that many, really—if they met by moonlight and Stiles could only see a silhouette of a man, he’d still recognize Derek in a heartbeat.

Cora is easier, somehow. With a sensible braid, heavier boots, and a leather jacket, she seems roughened up, changed in the ways a trip to discover your past is supposed to change you. Stiles doesn’t know what it is exactly what Derek and Cora were doing, what they were looking for, what they have found. He was never curious, busy with the shitstorms over Beacon Hills, the pack, school, keeping Scott’s asshole of a father in the dark, and staying alive; the Hales’ absence barely registered at the peripheries of his conscious thoughts. He’s curious now.

He’s curious how one can look older and younger at the same time, more and less weighted down, happier and more wistful, more hollow and less frayed. He’s curious what other changes he’d see if he stripped derek off his clothes, made him stand naked in a blinding light, and read the history of Derek Hale on Derek Hale’s skin. Sue him, he likes a good mystery, and right now, Derek’s the best Beacon Hills has to offer.

And then Cora says something, something he doesn’t hear, but would give up a kidney to know, because Derek—Derek bows his head, grinning, and when he straightens up, he’s laughing, and laughing, and laughing. Cora joins him, and Stiles—Stiles is fucked because with that laugh his brain has shifted Derek from the _puzzle to solve_ category into the _I wanna kiss him stupid_ one, and it feels right, right, right.

After a moment to catch his breath, Derek laughs again, and Stiles laughs with him. He’s so lightheaded he could fly.


	3. Cora/Stiles/Lydia, E, Cora/Lydia established relationship, one time threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles becomes Lydia and Cora’s fucktoy for a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oral, pegging, rough sex.

Stiles will never believe he isn’t dreaming, Lydia sprawled on the bed, legs thrown wide apart, fingers dancing on her clit, breasts, stomach, knuckles, ankles perfect, nipples pert and hard. He would know, he touched them a second ago. A millenium ago for how not real it feels.

Stiles has rolled Lydia Martin’s nipples between his fingers. Lydia Martin moaned because he touched her. Lydia Martin asked for more because he touched her.

He’s so fucking hard he can’t move.

Cora’s hand on the back on his neck guides him down, to his knees and lower, lower, his face close to Lydia’s cunt. “Need a demonstration?” Cora asks when he can’t do anything but stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and Lydia laughs throatily.

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “I might.”

Now they both laugh, and he should probably feel mortified, his fucking mouth, always ahead of him. Maybe he would, red and embarrassed, had Cora not pushed him aside, unceremoniously gotten two fingers on Lydia’s folds and opened them, exposing her swollen clit, bowed down to lick a stripe from the entrance of Lydia’s vagina to her nub, and again, and again, lips nipping at the clit, tongue delving deep, Stiles watching mesmerized. When Lydia’s back arches up and her knees close around Cora’s head, he has to squeeze the base of his dick not to come immediately, on the scent and noise of sex alone.

Cora licks Lydia through her orgasm, slower and slower, until Lydia’s tremors pass. Then she crawls up the bed, touches Lydia’s face like it’s the most precious thing, and kisses her deeply, their mouths slotting together like pieces of a puzzle, Cora’s hand in Lydia’s hair. Stiles licks his lips.

The rules are simple: he doesn’t get to kiss any of them, he doesn’t get to decide what they do (“Say _Derek_ if you don’t like what’s happening,” said Cora, and Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he might have sprained his eyeballs. If spraining one’s eyeballs is even possible, that is), he’s promised a mind-shattering orgasm in return. He would have been a fool not to take it.

Cora and Lydia kiss for a long time, and Stiles waits, looks, admires the curve of Cora’s back and ass, Lydia’s breast peeking out from under Cora’s palm, how graceful and strong and confident they are together. He doesn’t feel excluded, which—he’s honest enough with himself to admit it—is strange. He feels joyful. Full of anticipation. Intimately connected.

And also really turned on. He’s only nineteen, after all.

It’s Cora who finally breaks the kiss, sighs into Lydia’s mouth and stands up. “What do you want?” she asks Lydia. “His mouth?”

“Enough tongue,” Lydia answers, voice rough and slightly sleepy. She must be adorable after sex. “I wanna dick.”

Rolling on a condom is an exercise in coordination like never before. Not that Stiles has much of an experience, but still. Cora instructs him, after. To get on his knees, to hook Lydia’s knees over his shoulders, to bend over her (“Don’t worry, she’s really flexible!”) with just a tip of his dick inside her until his ass is up in the air.

It’s not that he’s surprised; they told him to prepare himself, and he did, thoroughly, but the first touch of another person’s finger against the rim of his asshole feels—strange. Good. Strange. Then Cora pushes in, and he clenches.

“Okay?” she asks. Lydia wriggles a little under him, sliding an inch further onto his dick, and he must bite his lower lip to get a grip on himself. It’s hotter than in his most detailed jerk-sessions fantasies.

“Yeah,” he says, when the immediate danger passes. “Totally. Everything’s dandy. Let’s, ahhhh—” Cora’s finger comes back slick and wet, and curls inside of him. It gets really good. “Let’s proceed.”

“Alright then,” Cora murmurs into his ear. “I’m gonna fuck you hard, I’m gonna fuck you as she likes it, and you’re gonna like it, too. You’ll come, you’ll get hard again, you’ll come again. It will be the best experience of your life.”

Stiles believes her.

He tries to not listen to the rustle of leather when Cora puts a strap-on on. He tries to relax and breathe when she grabs his hips and lines up. He shouts, surprised, when she bottoms out in one smooth motion, pain flaring and receding when the veins on her arm turn black. She pulls out, lines up again, pushes in again, this time with werewolf strength, his whole body moving, his dick pressing into Lydia, the three of them moaning, their bodies sliding together, moving, moving, rocking like it’s their last chance.

Hips rolling, thrusting, heads falling back, mouths opening on silent screams. Reverent _yeahs_ and _mores_ and _fucks_ falling almost silently into the spaces between them.

 _Maybe it is our last chance_ , Stiles thinks, while Cora fucks him rough and hard, her grip on his hipbone bruising his skin, just enough pain in the wet glide (in and out, in and out, in and out) of her dildo to keep him from coming too early. _Maybe it’s the highlight of my life_. He isn’t sad.

Lydia is a mess under him, her hands squeezing her breasts, because neither Stiles nor Cora can reach to them, her thighs open for them, together, and Stiles hasn’t thought it possible to look like a queen, like an empress, when getting fucked senseless, but it is, it so is.

Cora sighs behind him, her rhythm stuttering. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” she says, and Lydia trashes her head against the pillow, and howls, and comes; Stiles feels her clenching around him, sees her nails digging into her own flesh, scratching, scratching, drawing blood. “She is,” he pants, going with Cora’s small, aborted thrusts. “Lydia, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Lydia smiles, Cora laughs, her breasts pressing against his back, soft and small and lovely, and Stiles feels stretched between them like a piece of white linen drying under the sun in a black and white movie, reflecting the light.

He comes like they promised, breath catching, heart stopping, muscles tensing and releasing, and it’s the quietest he’s ever been, a perfect moment that stays perfect, a neat memory for them, for keeps, to hold onto in darker times.


	4. Derek/Jennifer, E, AU where Jennifer's an ordinary teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good thing finally happens in Beacon Hills High.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-public sex, sex in a workplace, clothed sex, oral.

Jennifer loses track of time while grading, again. When she raises her head after her neck starts hurting, it’s dark outside, and she shivers. She likes to pretend she doesn’t, but she remembers clearly, that night when it happened, that night when she began falling. She thinks about getting up and going home, she thinks about texting Derek, but then she catches sight of a mistake in the paper she’s been grading for the past twenty minutes, and just like that she’s gone again.

The next time she lifts her head up it’s to warm hands on her shoulders, thumbs moving slowly toward her collarbones, the rest of the fingers leaning against the upper swell of her breasts. “I knew I’d find you here,” Derek murmurs into her hair, and she lets her head fall against the hard muscles of his stomach. “Think you’d check up on me?” she asks. 

They went through it a few times, and it’s not exactly welcome, how Derek still creeps on her, now and again, how he can’t help himself. It’s so hard to balance, sometimes, their needs and their fears and the little bits of freedom they keep trying to grant each other. “Mhm,” he answers and kisses her forehead, then her cheek, his stubble lightly scratching her nose. Jennifer likes it, considers it adorable. “But I see you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it, ” Derek says and starts turning away, cold seeping through where he was touching her moments ago, and Jennifer thinks _Fuck it_ , thinks _I wanna be the irresponsible one just once_ , thinks _I deserve good memories from this place_.

So she tugs him in, and he goes, pliant, pliant like a reed, catching his weight easily with his hands on the armrests of her chair, dropping to his knees in front of her, and the sight of his glazed eyes makes Jennifer’s breath catch in her throat, makes her wanton, shameless, anticipating. She throws her legs wide open, knees hooked over his forearms, and waits for him to remove her panties, face flushed, staring into the ceiling as if it could show her the stars.

Derek doesn’t remove her panties, though. What he does is to tease her around the brim of the plain white cotton she favors, fingertips brushing against her swollen clit every once in a while, until she can’t keep quiet and moans, says “Derek,” says “C’mon, I don’t have all night.” It’s only then that he slips two fingers inside her underwear and pushes them into her, rough and without preamble, his head lowering between her thighs. He licks her through the fabric, adds a bit of teeth when her back bows when he gets the angle right, pumps the fingers in and out, in and out, until she’s thrashing her head against the backrest. Then he stops.

She swears like a sailor. He laughs. Makes her beg.

Lets her take control, finally, when she can’t not to, when her throat dries around her pleas. Jennifer grabs Derek’s hair, rides his fingers, and grinds against his face, the soaking wet panties clinging to her clit and her folds, Derek’s tongue hot on her, her hips rolling, muscles working, nipples hardening under her bra, until she’s so worked up she feels it in her spine. Derek opens his mouth then, gets his lips around her nub, and sucks, and sucks, and sucks, the tension in her snapping like a parched stick under a heavy boot, waves of release coming until she does see the fucking stars on the ceiling.

(They kiss lazily after, Derek still on his knees, because she likes him like that. He goes home hard and sends her pictures of his dick flushed and heavy in his hand, and she resists until he texts _Wanna come on you boobs_ , and then the grading is forgotten, but she gets another amazing orgasm for the night, so she really can’t complain.)


	5. Derek/Allison, E, established relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She laughs harsh and a little bit cruel, cold. “You almost died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsafe sex, sex after injuries, some blood, and a squint-and-you’ll-miss-it allusion to undernegotiated possible impregnation.

Allison will feel stupid tomorrow; she knows Derek doesn’t need her band-aids, nor her cloth damp with warm water, nor her fingers brushing against his pulse-point every now and then, checking the steadiness of his heartbeat. He’s already healing, he just needs to sleep it off, and the bruises on his body will disappear.

Derek is bruised deeper than his skin, but that’s a topic she isn’t going to touch upon anytime soon. Instead, she runs her hand through his hair, gently tilts his head, checks up on the wound on his brow. “I’m fine,” Derek says, and Allison wants to believe him. She hates that she doesn’t. She hates herself that she can’t.

“Go to sleep,” she says, untucks the covers, and helps him into bed. He probably doesn’t need it either, and she hates him for humoring her. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” she says, and turns to switch off the lights.

His hand is on her wrist, quicker than an attacking snake, his long fingers closing around her bones. She feels it pressing into her skin, but the grip is loose enough she could get away any moment if she wanted. She doesn’t want.

“Stay,” Derek says and lets go of her hand. He looks almost healed but weary and tired and— _broken_ , _beaten_ , _traumatized_ —sad. Something deep inside her stirs.

She shucks her jeans jacket and boots. Her short dress and tights are ripped in several places, she didn’t shower, and there may be blood in her hair, but she’s afraid if she leaves him, if she washes off all the dirt that marks the events of that day, she won’t find courage to come back to him, to find again that place inside her where she’s vulnerable and aching. She climbs into bed, over him, careful not to touch his abdomen (that was bloody not an hour ago), ribs (that were cracked), or his left shoulder (by which an arrow pinned him to a tree). She’s afraid there’s not an inch of his body that wouldn’t hurt if she caressed it, bit at, nipped.

Derek takes her hand and laces their fingers. “It’s fine,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”

She doesn’t know whether he means the fight, or her bloody dress staining their linens, or the sheer ridiculousness of their lives, of them together, but it’s stupid anyway, all of those things matter, so she laughs. She laughs harsh and a little bit cruel, cold. “You almost died,” she says, and then the reality of it hits her, and she loses her breath. “You almost died,” she says again, much quieter, words like lead coating her throat, and suddenly Derek is up in her space, nuzzling at her hair, hand warm and sweaty on hers. “Almost,” he says into her neck. “Not dead. I’m here.”

His mouth finds her jaw, brushes her cheek, her brow, lightly, then carries on down her face with more insistence, and Allison tries to feel guilty of how much she wants, how much they shouldn’t, there’s no way Derek’s fully healed, but his moves are sure and dexterous, and maybe he needs to feel he’s alive too anyway, so she opens up her legs, nudges him closer, and says “Yes, yes, yes” when his lips close around her nipple through a thin fabrics of her dress and lacy bra, because it’s the only word echoing through her head.

When Derek pops out his claws to tear at the remnants of her tights and her panties, she shivers, toes curling into the sheets. Curling more, when he dives in, kisses the skin under her knee, her inner thighs, her clit. She realizes she’s got handfuls of his hair when his tongue works its way into her, and she pulls. He doesn’t seem to mind, lapping and licking and sucking. They both moan, except hers is loud and throaty and his is soft and prayer-like, breathed into her, and she loves it, she loves how he makes her feel.

At least until he pushes two fingers inside and paradoxically—she feels empty. She wants more, she wants all of him, so she tugs him until he gets the gist, sliding up her body, rumpling her dress, kissing her with lips swollen and tasting of her. He’s naked, and Allison enjoys the contrast, his skin against her dress, his hard dick against the softness of her thigh, his stubble against her cheek, her chin, her neck.

They’ve only ever fucked with condoms, and it’s so stupid to stay his hand when he reaches for the bedside table drawer, but Allison does it anyway, rocking her hips in case he didn’t get the memo, because her throat is too dry to speak. Derek stills, then lunges in, kissing her filthy and deep and desperate. “You sure?” he asks, but he’s already lined in, so all it takes for Allison is to pull him in with her leg hooked around his hips, and he’s in her, and it’s good, good, better than good. They lack finesse, maybe because they don’t care, maybe because they don’t fit, but as they rock together, Derek sliding in and out and in, Allison writhing under him, sweat beading on their foreheads, between her breasts, and on the small of his back, it feels like finding a way home.

Allison comes almost violently, back arching up away from the mattress, Derek catching her and pulling her into his lap, fucking her through it like he wants his whole body to be inside of her, safe in her, for her, for her, for her, face turning into her hair as his hips pick up the rhythm. He says “Allison,” and he says “Oh god,” and he says “Alli,” and nobody’s ever called her that. When she tells him so, when she finds his mouth and kisses him, hands around his head keeping it in place, he pushes in for the last time, hips stuttering and stilling, coming, coming in her, and her heart almost stops, filled with bittersweet longing. Derek breaks the kiss to throw back his head to howl, eyes flashing in electric blue, and for a second there’s nothing human in him.

Allison loves the beast in him.


	6. Jennifer Blake, T, gen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things to know about Jennifer Blake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jennifer/Kali and Jennifer/Derek mentioned.

What was she like before?

Did she cry a lot as a child? What kind of lullabies did her mother sing to her? Did she like building sandcastles as a five-year-old? Did she like science at school but her teacher told her she daydreamed too often to be a good scientist?

Was she the quiet one of the pack? The vicious one? The soft one? Did she always have the violent streak needed for her revenge, the single-mindedness, the dedication to her goals, and the ability to compartmentalize her feelings, or was it something Kali had taught her?

How did she kiss? Did she go for the lower or upper lip first? Did she caress Kali’s face after they made out, had sex? Was she jealous of Ennis? Did she feel a little bit trapped, bonded to her alpha in all possible ways, not knowing how to end this relationship herself, waiting impatiently to be set free?

Did she always let her hair down or did she know, did she somehow feel in her bones that that day was going to be special, so she left it unbraided, just in case?

Did she heal because of her druid powers or was it hard work of ordinary doctors in an ordinary hospital? Did she ever regret, even for a second, that she’d made it? Was the pain ever too much? Did she mold her new face in a mirror image of her mother’s, grandmother’s, sister’s wedding picture? Did she ever hesitate when people called her Jennifer? (Did she want Derek to say _Julia_ when he came?) Was she trying to let go? To start a new life, far from all things supernatural?

How often did she wake at night?

How often did she tell herself she couldn’t—do it, make it, go on? 

Was she more angry or afraid when she got trapped with Boyd and Cora in the boiler room? Did she regret she’d started with the virgins, not warriors or healers? Did she regret she’d started at all then that she thought the deaths of those kids were in vain?

What did she like about Derek the most? His bunny teeth? His soft voice? His thick hair? Stubble? How he kissed her, full of desperation and longing? How his fingers dug into her hips when he fucked into her, panting, focused, open for her like she was open for him, leaving bruises, the good kind of bruises, on her skin? How she seemed to make him whole? How he made her whole?

Did she ever thought her ( _their_ ) love was unhealthy?

Did a part of her want to spare Kali? To hear _I’m sorry, Babe_? To hear _I love you_? To say it back?

Did she want to hear _I love you_ from Derek?

Did she hear it?

Was her last thought of him? Of herself? Of Kali? Of all of them together, happy, having a good life?

Did Jennifer Blake believe in a good life?

And Julia Baccari?


	7. Derek/Allison, G, established relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of them all, she needs the longest cooling-down period.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because of that [ adorable photo](http://24.media.tumblr.com/ab6347a67e1d04b2d0b7c4597f4f8a4e/tumblr_mtx5r8BEP91rkeajio2_500.png) of Hoechlin and Crystal. (Sorry, the blog I reblogged it from is on hiatus, hence I’m linking only the photo.)

Around the house, Allison wears soft fabrics and loose clothes. Cotton T-shirts that are too big everywhere, wide necklines showing off her collarbones and hems that ride up above her bellybutton. Sweatpants that are often Derek’s, hanging low on her narrow hips, too long, too long. She cuffs them when she trots between the sofa and the kitchen, unrolls them and hides her feet in the legs when she curls up in front of the turned off TV set with a mug of hot chocolate.

Allison drinks a lot of chocolate; her favorite is cherry-flavored.

Of them all, she needs the longest cooling-down period. After all these years, it still surprises Derek, sometimes. The difference between Allison with a bow and Allison with chocolate. Allison fighting—quick and decisive—and Allison laying down her art supplies, biting down at her lip, mixing watercolors on the palette, thinking, deciding, changing her mind ten times in ten minutes. She still doesn’t believe it, but Derek thinks she’s good.

After she’s done, there are stains on her clothes, skin, mugs she keeps forgetting to load into the dishwasher. Allison likes pastels; the stains she makes are bright and beautiful.

They don’t have steady jobs; Derek doesn’t need money and doesn’t mind having Allison around all days, all nights. Chris does, blames Derek for Allison’s lack of interest in higher education, pursuing a career, getting a _normal life_. They didn’t start dating well after Allison’s 21st birthday, but Derek gets it; he knows everything about the blame and the need to lay it on someone else’s shoulders, the relief it can provide, so he doesn’t say anything, smiles when Allison asks him to, a camera in her hands.

Smiles more genuinely when it’s nothing artistic, just her fooling around, taking photos of the two of them together, a bit out of focus, but who cares when they’re flush against each other’s sides, so close nothing could get between them. She’s got dimples on those pictures, he—laughlines. Derek thinks they make a good pair.

Allison keeps smiling.


	8. Derek/Stiles, M, established relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They’re colliding, crashing violently, merging into something new."

There’re many things to like about fucking Derek: the deep breath, loud and heavy in otherwise quiet surroundings, he takes in when the cockhead breaches the confines of his body; how he makes space in himself; the rivulets of sweat on his temples and chest; the glaziness of his eyes; the clutching of his fingers gripping at sheets, but Stiles— Stiles likes the hotness the most, both literally and figuratively. 

Because Derek runs hot, sure, so he _is_ hot under Stiles’s hands and lips, where their ribcages touch, legs entwine. Blotches of red blossom on him like big, dangerous flowers, and the slick slide of his palms almost burns when he tries to grab at Stiles’s ass, pull him in closer.

(Stiles wishes it burned for real, left a mark.)

But also, they’re _hot_ together, Derek and him, taking each other apart. Hot like a volcano about to explode, maybe, or a supernova, because point is—they’re colliding, crashing violently, merging into something new. It’s cheesy, to think that about fucking, about an act of biological need performed with a willing partner, but Stiles has fucked a lot of people since the senior year of high school, and not once did he feel the heat from another body expanding to encompass both of them like steam in a sauna, veiling Stiles from the world like a cocoon, making his heart swell.

So yeah, maybe what they’re doing, fucking each other until the shockwaves tear them apart, is going up with the flames, but Stiles is a mythology major, believes in ridiculous things. Werewolves. Kanimas. Darachs.

Phoenixes.

Love at first fuck.


	9. Kisses, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: kisses headcanons! :)

Scott’s a natural or a quick learner. Enough said, he gives everybody what they need, be it slow and careful, be it hard and rough, it’s always breathtaking. He gives himself into the kiss, into the flow of energy between his body and the other’s, into the merging. Scott kisses like a life depends on it, like he can mend broken hearts with the sweetness of his mouth, like the tip of his tongue tracing the contour of someone’s lips draws a map to guide them out of the dark. aAd maybe scott can do all those things; why not if—kissing, being, living—he gives all of himself, doesn’t know how to give anything less. 

*

Allison starts out slow and shy, but grows bolder quickly, quickly, like a wildfire spreading through the woods. Her lips are always soft, and she always smells of rosemary and thyme, and she’s as straightforward as her arrows. She stops in the middle, more than once, to smile, to laugh, to tuck her hair behind her ear, to put a calloused hand to a cheek; it’s what makes her seem more gentle than she is. But after, when everything’s a-tingle, she bites down on her bottom lip, hard, and there’s nothing gentle about it. Then again—she’s always preferred to draw her own blood.

*

Stiles’s lips are chapped, which is no surprise to anybody who knows him. Chapped and wet and warm when he starts moving them, quick and insistent like he moves his whole body. But kissing is no hand-waving, no shoulder-shrugging; he puts his mind into it, and when Stiles puts his mind into something, well, it’s a serious business. He kisses until his lips are tingling, until he’s short of breath and can’t, can’t, can’t make those tiny noises in the back of his throat; that’s when he stops and grins, bright and easy, and for a moment his eyes are alight. Then he starts again, all warmth and moans cut off by lips sliding against lips, because that’s Stiles for you, never half-way, always all-in. All in the darkness, all in the light. 

*

Derek’s kisses are guarded, closed-off, as if he doesn’t want to kiss at all, but he does, he does, he stopped doing what he doesn’t want long time ago. Until one night, three, five, ten years into the future the dam breaks, and his kisses become like a flood, and he drowns in them, he drowns himself and everything around him, time slowing down like Derek’s underwater, lungs burning, lightheadedness creeping down his spine, to the toes. When he emerges back he’s gasping, eyes blue and flashing in the dark, teeth white and sharp, and he puts lips to lips again, immediately and all at once, as if he’s dying, as if it’s his long-awaited happy ending. And because Derek doesn’t need much, as long as nobody burns—it is.

*

Lydia kisses like she breathes, puts on make-up, does math—effortlessly. Clearly, she’s rehearsed a lot, and something in the tilt of her head, her raspberry-flavored lipgloss, her attitude says she’s still practicing; the kiss she’s sharing right now just another step on her way to perfection. It doesn’t matter, it never matters; everyone she’s ever kissed agrees: she’s the sweetness on the tongue, she’s the poison in the veins. It’s impossible to forget Lydia’s kisses—she sucks souls out of bodies with them. Later, she will lick her lips, kiss herself; after all she’s been through, she deserves the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://themonstering.tumblr.com)!


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